It is a curious sensation to be lying on your back you don't know where,
and you can't think of the reason why it should be so, but with your
head right off, completely detached from your body, and rolling round
and round like an exceedingly heavy big ball, that for some inexplicable
reason has been pitched into a vast mill on purpose to be ground, but,
probably from its thickness and hardness, does not submit to that
process, but is always going on and on between the upper stone and
nether stone, suffering horrible pain, but never turning into powder,
nor even into bits, but going grinding on always for a time that seems
as if it would never end unless the millstones should wear away.
That is what seemed to be the matter with Fitz Burnett, for how long he
could not tell. But a change came at last, with the gnawing, grinding
pain becoming dull. Later on it did not seem that his head was detached
from his body, and he had some undefined idea that his hands were where
he could move them, and at last, later on still, he found himself lying
in comparative calmness and in no pain, but in a state something between
sleeping and waking.
Then came a time when he began to think that it was very dark, that he
was very tired, and that he wanted to sleep, and so he slept. Then
again that it was very light, very warm, and that something seemed to be
the matter with his berth, for he was thinking more clearly now. He
knew he was lying on his back in his berth, and curiously enough he knew
that it was not his berth, and while he was wondering why this was,
something tickled his nose.
Naturally enough as the tickling went on, passing here and there, he
attributed it to a fly upon his face, and his instinct suggested to him
to knock it off. He made a movement to do this quickly and suddenly,
but his hand fell back upon his chest--whop! It was only a light touch,
but he heard it distinctly, and as the movement resulted in dislodging
the fly, he laughed to himself, perfectly satisfied. He felt very
comfortable and went to sleep again.
Hours must have passed, and it was light once more. He turned his head
and looked towards that light, to see that it was dancing and flashing
upon beautiful blue water all rippled and playing under the influence of
a gentle breeze. He could not see much of it, for he was only looking
through a round cabin-window. This was puzzling, for there was no such
window as that in the gunboat, and the mental question came--where was
he?
But it did not seem to matter. He was very comfortable, and that
dancing light upon the water was one of the most lovely sights he had
ever seen. He thought that it was a beautiful morning and that it was
very nice to lie and watch it, but he did not think about anybody else
or about whys or wherefores or any other puzzling problems, not even
about himself. But he did think it would be pleasant to turn himself a
little over on his side with his face close to the edge of the berth,
and take in long breaths of that soft, sweet air.
Acting upon this thought, he tried to turn himself, and for the first
time began to wonder why it was that he could not stir; and directly
after he began to wonder what it was he had been dreaming about;
something concerning his head aching horribly and going round and round
in a mill.
It was while he was obliged to give this up as something he could not
master that he heard a click as of a door opening, and the next moment
some one came softly in, and a face was interposed between his and the
cabin-window.
It was a rather rough but pleasant-looking face, with dark brown eyes
and blackish curly hair, cut short. The face was a good deal sunburnt
too. But he did not take much notice of that; it was the eyes that
caught his attention, looking searchingly into his, and Fitz waited,
expecting the owner of the eyes would speak; and then it seemed to him
that he ought to ask something--about something. But about what? He
did not quite know, for he felt that though he was wide-awake he could
not think as he should. It was as if his apparatus was half asleep.
But the owner of the eyes did not say anything, only drew back and
disappeared, and as he did so, Fitz found that he could think, for he
was asking himself how it was that the fellow who had been looking at
him had disappeared.
He came to the conclusion directly afterwards that it was a dream. Then
he knew it was not, for he heard a gruff voice that seemed to come
through the boards say--
"All right, Poole. Tumble up directly. What say?"
"He's awake, father, and looks as if he had come to himself."
"Eh? Oh, that's good news. Come and see him directly."
Now Fitz began to think fast, but still not about himself.
"Father, eh?" he thought. "Whose father is he? He said he was coming
to see some one directly. Now I wonder who that may be."
That was as much as Fitz Burnett could get through upon this occasion,
for thinking had made his eyelids heavy, and the bright flashing water
at which he gazed seemed to grow dull and play upon the boards of his
berth just over his head and close at hand.
From growing dull, this rippling water grew very dark indeed, and then
for some time there was nothing more but sleep--beautiful sleep,
Nature's great remedy and cure for a heavy blow upon the head that has
been very close upon fracturing the bone, but which in this case fell so
far short that Fitz Burnett had only had severe concussion of the brain.